My grandma owned just one refrigerator in her life. She didn’t get it until the mid-1960s, just in time to chill her last daughter’s final few baby bottles. The fridge moved with them from the country to the city, to the modest bungalow that would be the only home I ever knew them in, and finally, it was left behind when my grandparents sold their house to move into a retirement home. Along with the house, the loss of that fridge felt symbolic. I’m sure it was on the new owner’s list of items to be replaced, and maybe it needed replacing, but then again, it’s just as likely that it didn’t look the part, didn’t fit in with their plans to gut the kitchen and install new granite counter tops.